


you kept falling in love (then one day)

by dubcliq



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dubcliq/pseuds/dubcliq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Lexa notices three things when she opens her eyes.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>1. Everything hurts.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>2. She does not know where she is.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>3. There is a girl holding her hand;</i>
  <br/>
  <i>She does not recognize her.</i>
</p><p>Or: Lexa survives her gunshot wound and wakes up post-City of Light without memories of when she had the Commander’s Spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. now i live a waking life (of looking backwards, looking backwards)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dealan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dealan/gifts).



> Because apparently, it takes a village to get me to write anything: special thanks to all the folks who've looked over this fic, yelled about ideas and headcanons with me, and kept bugging me to "just fucking write gdi" - Jem, angsty Em, fluffy Em, Leecifer, Sammi, Hustla, Madi, Steph, Sheree, Kellendra - y'all the real MVPs. 
> 
> (especially Jem, who puts up with my whining daily.
> 
> And Kay with the prompt that inspired this - I will get to the prompt part I promise!)
> 
> Fic title from Barcelona - Please Don't Go; Chapter titles from Sleeping At Last - Pluto.

Lexa notices three things when she opens her eyes:

1\. Everything hurts.

2\. She does not know where she is.

3\. There is a girl holding her hand;

She does not recognize her.

 

//

 

There must have been an assassination attempt on her Ascension Day.

This must be why her body aches, why the back of her neck aches.

This does not explain why she is not being seen to in the Commander’s room, in _her_ room, but in a small healer’s tent with no guards in sight. Does not explain the girl who refuses to leave her side even though it looks as if she has not slept in days. Or the way she whispers Lexa’s name so reverently, so tenderly, as she gently pushes the hair out of Lexa’s face.

(Lexa thinks about this days from now, about soft hands and a fond smile and blue eyes that were tired and worried but also relieved, so relieved.

She thinks about the moment before everything fell apart.)

 

//

 

There was an assassination attempt, but she was not the intended target. This is why her body aches.

The back of her neck aches, not from receiving the Commander’s Spirit, but because she is no longer in possession of it.

The attempt was not on the day she became Commander. Four summers have passed since her first Ascension Day.

She is no longer _Heda_.

This is why she is in a healer’s tent in the outskirts of Polis. The attempt was on Clarke _kom Skaikru_ , the girl who now looks at her with a sadness and desperation that she cannot bear.

So she looks away and asks to be left alone.

 

//

 

The girl — Clarke — is no longer in the tent the next time she wakes. She is greeted by the healer, a tall heavyset man with an unkempt beard, who introduces himself as Balt.

She slowly pushes herself up to a sitting position, wincing at the pain that immediately wracks her body. He makes a move to help, but she glares his way and his hands drop to his sides.

“Tell me,” she orders, in Trigedasleng.

“ _Wanheda_ , she...” He trails off, taking note of her confusion. He clears his throat and tries again. “The _Skai_  girl who was here, she brought you here in the middle of the night with her friend, a _Skai_  boy. I do not know why. She told me she removed the bullet and stitched the wound, told me you no longer bleed. But you were… you were pale. Dead. There was nothing for me to do.”

He pauses briefly, waiting for Lexa to process his words. Lexa realizes that she’d been fisting the thin, coarse sheet draped over her lap and loosens her grip, extending her fingers to stretch out the soreness. She takes a shaky breath and nods for him to continue.

“The _Skai_  girl came back with a young boy, a _natblida_  — to give you blood. She said you live, but you did not wake. She made me swear to keep watch over you and not tell anyone. She disappeared with the _Skai_  boy and did not come back for four days. You woke up on the fifth.”

She is silent for a while, her mind racing as she tries to conjure up images to match his story. She knows she was unconscious, that she should have no memory of it. Still, the emptiness inside her stretches just a little more.

Balt waits for her patiently, but she does not ask him to tell her more. Instead she nods her thanks, and he takes it as a dismissal.

As he leaves the tent, Lexa wonders if word has reached the _Trigedakru_. If Anya and Costia have heard.

 

//

 

It is not Anya or Costia who comes to see her next. The moment Indra steps inside, Lexa understands.

 _“_ Tell me, _”_ she says anyway.

 

//

 

Costia and Anya are dead.

She still does not remember, but now she knows.

 

//

 

The _Maunon_ have fallen.

Not because of her or her warriors, but at the hands of the one they now call _Wanheda_.

At the hands of Clarke _kom Skaikru_.

 

//

 

Indra tells her that her people are free because of her.

That she had served them well as _Heda_.

 

//

 

Queen Nia is dead.

It was Lexa who dealt the killing blow.

It took her two summers, took her swallowing her rage and forming the Coalition and fighting and ending wars, all with the knowledge that she might never have the chance to seek her own personal retribution.

Lexa thinks it should bring her comfort to know that Nia ultimately died by her hand.

It doesn’t.

 

//

 

She had a personal guard named Gustus, assigned to her shortly after she became _Heda_. He guarded her with his life, risked his own because he thought it would keep her safe.

She does not remember him.

It does not hurt as much, hearing about him. Perhaps she is still reeling from losing Costia (again, she reminds herself), from losing Anya (again), that the loss of Gustus, who is still faceless in her mind, does not make her breath catch in her throat, does not tire her jaw quelling the burning behind her eyes.

She feels thirteen again, being sentenced to ten lashes for her insubordination, for endangering the life of another _Seken_ during a hunt. She is weak, like the _goufa_ ( _branwada_ , Anya had called her) who cannot bear to keep her eyes open after the ninth lash. Gustus is the relief she feels right before she loses consciousness. The tenth lash she does not remember feeling.

(Does not remember feeling until she wakes up whimpering, suffering the pain of all ten lashes on her back.)

She carries the scars well into autumn. They fade eventually, but not all of them fade completely.

Lexa will carry Gustus’s death much like she does the warriors who have fought for her, died for her, warriors who are now also faceless (and nameless). Yet he will not haunt her quite like her lost love or her beloved mentor.

And that distinction will bring its own guilt, because she was taught to serve her people equally, was raised to love them fiercely. But she is merely a common girl now, so even though it has been instilled in her as weakness, she allows herself a temporary luxury, allows herself to drown in the deaths of the two people she loved most.

 

//

 

She tries very hard not to eavesdrop, but the thin flaps of the tent allow the voices outside to carry, rousing her awake. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, tries to identify them — the emotional rasp that slips into the girl’s heated words, the steady rumble of an older, male voice.

“If you think I’m letting you near Lexa —”

Clarke.

And Titus, she realizes.

The knowledge spurs her to press her hands down on her cot in an attempt to bring herself into an upright position, but a sharp pain halts her movements. She grits her teeth, grasping the edges of the thin sheet as waves of discomfort continue to radiate from her wound. She takes deep, calming breaths, willing the pain to fade so she can return her focus to the conversation outside.

If it is indeed Titus outside, she has much to ask. Surely, the _fleimkepa_ will have the answers she requires. But her stomach sinks at the next words she hears:

“ _...I am not here for her._ I am here to inform you that you are no longer welcome in Polis. Until a decision has been made regarding _Skaikru’s_ status within the Coalition —”

“The decision has already been made. Aden pledged his loyalty to the Thirteenth Clan.”

“The _new Commander_ will see the merits of our old ways sooner rather than later. _Jus drein jus daun_ will be the code we live by once again _._ Your people will pay for their crimes.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Lexa furrows her brow, several questions forming at the tip of her tongue. She moves to push herself up again, biting her lip to keep from crying out. It takes two more tries to sit up before Lexa manages, and she uses the momentum to swing her legs over to the side of the cot. She lowers her feet to the ground gently, curling her toes against the loose dirt. She takes a deep breath, feeling herself begin to tire from her efforts.

“Careful, Clarke _kom Skaikru_. You continue to overstep. I could have you forcefully removed from Polis with one —”

“Please, Aden would never —”

“ _Commander_ Aden is busy with his new responsibilities. Do not presume that you will be afforded the same freedom that the previous Commander allowed. It is time you learned your place.” A pause. Then, “I will see to it that the healer —”

“Absolutely not. You've done enough. She is no longer your responsibility.”

“And she was never yours.”

There’s a pause, then —

“You know what? Go float yourself, Titus. If you think I'd trust you with Lexa’s care —”

“And you believe you are more suited to care for her? Lexa achieved more than any of the Commanders before her, and she would have achieved even more had you not interfered. I told Lexa that you would be her downfall. Her priorities were misplaced ever since you arrived in Polis. You have done nothing but endanger her life. Had she not been so blinded by you —”

“ _You_ were the one with the gun! And you were content to let her bleed to death as long as you got that stupid chip —”

“I made a vow to Lexa that I would not harm you, Clarke _kom Skaikru_ , but you are testing me.”

“I’m not leaving until Lexa...”

Lexa’s head spins as she tries to keep up with the rapid influx of information, trying to make sense of the confusion, anger, and sense of betrayal swirling inside of her, of _Skaikru_ crimes and her apparent special treatment of Clarke and _jus drein jus daun_ being a thing of the past and Titus with a _fayogon_.

Titus being the one who shot her.

None of it adds up.

She speaks out before she can stop herself, bringing the angry voices outside to an abrupt halt.

“ _Em pleni._ ”

“Lexa,” she hears Titus startle, followed by what sounds like a minor struggle and _unhand me at once_ before she sees the ruffling of the tent flaps.

“Stop,” she calls out, her voice clear and steady, and the movement outside ceases.

Her hands grip the edges of the cot to balance herself as she moves to stand. Her knees quake from the effort, knocking together clumsily, and she grunts in pain from the sharp throbbing from her midsection.

“Lexa,” Clarke calls out worriedly, and Lexa looks up to see fingers curl around the flap.

“I said stop,” she grits out, and the hand disappears.

She steels herself, grunting again as she pushes herself up in one swift motion — and _skrish_ , her entire body aches as if she had narrowly survived an encounter with a _pauna_ , but she’s standing.

She wills herself to move, one foot at a time. It is a small tent, and it takes no more than four steps to reach the opening. Still, the distance leaves her panting softly, and she casts a quick longing look towards one of the poles, suppressing the temptation to lean against it for support. She wipes away the beads of sweat that have begun to form on her forehead with the back of her hand. Then, squaring her shoulders, she reaches out and lifts the tent flap, taking a step outside.

“Titus,” she greets with a subtle dip of her head. Then she turns her head to the right and repeats the motion. “Clarke.”

“Lexa,” Titus says, “I am pleased to see that you have recovered. I —”

He falls silent as Lexa raises her hand.

She looks at Titus pointedly. Titus, who comes unaccompanied by guards, much of his face obscured by the hood of his cloak. His posture remains rigid, producing an air of righteousness she had observed upon their first meeting weeks — no, years — ago, betrayed only by the shaking, restless hands folded in front of him.

She turns to Clarke, who stares back at her, lips pursed tightly, studiously ignoring the presence of the man next to her. Her eyes are sharp and focused but laced with a worry that Lexa has come to recognize.

Lexa’s eyes flit back and forth once more.

She does not know if Clarke is trustworthy, does not understand her motivations even if something tells Lexa that the fierce protectiveness cannot be anything but genuine.

She no longer knows if she can trust the man who was supposed to be her closest counsel. There is no honor in someone who dares wield a _Maunon_ weapon inside the walls of Polis.

So the choice is clear: the only person she can trust is herself, and the decisions she made — even if she does not remember them.

“The _fleimkepa’s_ place is next to _Heda_ ,” she finally says, redirecting her gaze towards Titus. “It is a title I no longer possess. As such, I no longer require your counsel, and you have no business with me. If I have truly achieved as much as you say I have, you will extend me the respect I deserve and allow me to heal in peace.”

“But —”

“Let me remind you, Titus,” she interrupts, eyes flashing dangerously, “that if you are indeed so intent on maintaining our _old ways_ , that _my_ blood must have blood.”

Titus sputters, floundering for a moment before he collects himself, straightening his posture once more and nodding stiffly. “Very well. Clarke _kom Skaikru_ shall be permitted to remain in Polis for the meantime. But once you are healed she is to leave and not return until she is summoned.”

She glances over to see if Clarke will argue, and to her relief, Clarke merely gives him a terse nod. And with a slight bow of his head, Titus turns and departs, head held high, legs moving in quick strides.

Only when his footsteps grow softer does Lexa allow herself to relax, her eyes fluttering shut, staggering backwards as hands reach behind blindly for the nearest pole. Her hand barely brushes against it before her body falls back against it heavily, her head hitting the narrow (but fortunately sturdy) wood.

“Lexa,” Clarke calls out, exasperated. “Let me help you back —”

Lexa cuts her off with a wave of her hand.

“I'm fine,” she assures, determined to mask the extent to which she feels the strain on her body.

 _Skrish_.

She’s not fine.

She blinks, trying to clear the haze in her head. Instead she finds herself distracted by the movement behind Clarke, towards a few of the villagers nearby. There aren't many this far from the heart of Polis, but a couple of children stop and stare, wide-eyed and whispering. The more curious of the two takes a step forward, only to be intercepted by one of the elders who berates them and guides them away, sneaking a few wary looks in their direction.

“Lexa.” The voice is gentler this time, but it does not quell the unease that settles. It does, however, shake her from her daze, and a panic quickly sets in. She stumbles back into the tent, dropping back on her cot.

Clarke follows, dropping to her knees in front of Lexa, but thankfully, she does not try to reach out again. Lexa slumps forward, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. Her mind races, trying to pinpoint what it is that elicited that reaction, that caused her eyes to blur and her heart to seize up inside her chest. It may be her confrontation with Titus; or perhaps it was venturing outside the first time, leaving the safety of the tent, making her circumstances feel all the more real, because inside everything she’d been told still felt like mere stories, but outside —

“Hey,” Clarke says, her voice soft. “Hey, you’re okay.”

Lexa nods, her head still tucked in her hands as she takes a few calming breaths. Clarke waits, remains close, her presence both soothing and confusing to Lexa at the same time. “I’m fine,” Lexa says again, looking up. Clarke is unconvinced, eyes wandering down, as if expecting Lexa’s shirt to be stained in blood.

 _It’s not_ , Lexa thinks. Her shirt clings to her body, from sweat, from exertion. She does not think she has pulled her stitches (hopes she has not pulled her stitches).

Clarke bites her lip, the temptation to check for herself clearly written on her face. Lexa tilts her chin upward defiantly, until finally, Clarke nods, accepting her answer. A silence stretches between them, and Lexa wants to say something, anything. She feels her body tire, her mind tire, and she wishes for solitude to quiet her mind, to sleep.

It’s Clarke who breaks the silence.

“Thank you for backing me,” Clarke says, her voice coming out in a soft whisper.

Lexa sighs, rubbing her forehead tiredly. She can feel the beginnings of a headache forming between her eyes.

 _I wasn’t backing you_ , she wants to say. _I was backing me._

“It’s what I — it’s what _she_ would have done.”

Clarke does not respond right away. Lexa uses that time to lie back down and pull the sheet back over her body, careful not to jostle her injury. She does not want to appear weak, but Clarke has already seen her with her body weak, seen the extent of her injuries to know that she is not completely fine. And maybe Clarke will accept her desire to rest as a compromise and cease her worrying, at least for the day.

“I’ll let you rest,” Clarke says, moving to stand. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” A pause, then, “Okay?”

Lexa hesitates. She considers declining, because she still does not trust Clarke, but she has already turned away Titus. There is no one else who could have the answers she seeks — and truth be told, while she would like to be left alone right now, she does not want to be left alone for the remainder of her recovery.

(Does not want to _feel_ alone — and she has felt very much alone since she woke the first night.)

So when she opens her mouth to reply, what she says is —

“Okay.”

She does not wait for Clarke to answer before she shuts her eyes, and she listens for Clarke’s departure, waits for the footsteps to fade before she lets sleep overcome her once again.

 

//

 

Clarke returns the next day, as she said she would.

She does not mention the previous day. Instead, she tells Lexa about her people who fell from the sky. She speaks of the Twelve Stations, and the Thirteenth that had been blasted from the Ark. Of Polaris, of how it connects to Polis.

She tells Lexa about the City of Light. About her people that were trapped inside, about _Lexa_ being trapped inside. About her decision to go in and how she got them all out.

Lexa does not completely follow, cannot fully wrap her mind around all this talk of artificial intelligence and chips and virtual reality. She’s still trying, trying so hard to make sense of the endless slew of information about coalitions and wars and treason.

(And Anya, and Costia.

And Clarke.)

Clarke tells Lexa that she had been a good Commander, that her legacy was peace. She speaks of hope, of new beginnings, but there is still a sadness in her eyes that Lexa aches to understand.

“They said you were the one who brought me back.”

_They said you were the one who kept my body safe. That you were the one who brought my spirit back._

The question lingers at the tip of Lexa’s tongue, remains unspoken. But Clarke hears it, and she looks at her searchingly, so earnestly — that Lexa has to look away. She does not have the heart to tell Clarke that what she’s looking for is no longer there.

"You sacrificed your blood and soul for peace,” Clarke finally says, a wistful smile on her face. “It didn’t seem right for you to die before —” Her breath hitches, and she pauses to collect herself. “You deserved to live to see it."

 

//

 

(“You did it for your people.”

“I did it for you.”)

 

//

 

She still has no memories of the girl who saved her.

 

//

 

“Why did Titus vow not to harm you?”

The question takes them both by surprise — Clarke, who’s resigned to the fact that Lexa does not want to know, is not _ready_ to know; and Lexa, who’s had nothing but time to reflect, who _knows_ why (but does not _understand_ why, not when the pain of losing Costia is still so fresh, not when she still feels that hopeful tug in her heart whenever someone lifts the tent flap to enter, only to _remember_ ).

“You made him,” Clarke replies, a slight tremble in her voice, “when you thought you were going to...” She trails off, unable to continue. She does not have to.

Because Lexa _knows_.

But the knowledge, the confirmation — it hits her anyway, knocking the breath right out of her lungs, and she cannot stop the words before they spill out of her mouth. “I must have loved you a lot,” she murmurs, and she feels an immediate stab of guilt because she knows, she _knows_ it will hurt Clarke.

Clarke, who barely holds back the sob that bubbles up in her throat, who nods haltingly, unshed tears in her eyes.

Clarke, who begins to reach out for her hand but thinks better of it.

Lexa smiles sadly, feeling her own eyes sting.

(She is unprepared for how much it hurts her too.)

They sit there, facing each other — worlds apart.

It did not stop them before, not when one of them was rooted in the ground, the other living amongst the stars; not when they stood on opposite sides of the same war. And here they are, barely a foot apart, separated by a different type of distance between them: one yearning for a girl who was seemingly alive just days ago; the other yearning for a girl she braved another realm to bring back — only to find that the one she risked her life for no longer exists.

How they can even begin to overcome that, Lexa does not know.

She’s not sure she’ll ever be ready to find out.

 

//

 

Lexa does not ask if Clarke loved her just as much.

(She does not have to.)

 

//

 

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do next?” Clarke asks.

Now that Balt has deemed Lexa fit for travel, they both know that Lexa’s time in Polis is coming to an end. There is no reason to linger — Polis is no longer her home.

“Indra has offered me a place among her warriors,” Lexa replies. Indra did not require an answer before she left, but it was an easy decision. Lexa has been groomed for battle her whole life, and she cannot imagine living any differently.

(She was also groomed to lead, but that part of her life is over.)

Clarke opens her mouth, as if poised to speak, but she thinks better of it and closes it again.

“What is it, Clarke?”

“I was hoping you would come to Arkadia with me,” Clarke says, biting her lip nervously. “My mom — she’s a doctor. A _fisa_. She won’t be able to run a full scan without Mount Weather’s medical facility, but —”

“No.”

“Lexa —”

“Clarke,” she warns.

“No, listen, Lexa —”

“No, you listen. You have saved my life, and for that I am —” _grateful._ The word gets lodged in her throat, unwilling to make it past her lips. “I am —” _grateful. grateful. grate_ — “ _Jok!_ You should _not_ have saved me, Clarke.”  

Lexa takes a deep breath. It comes out shakily when she exhales, so she takes another one to center herself.

“And here I thought you were getting better at saying thank you,” Clarke says, chuckling dryly. There’s a slight bitterness in her tone, and Lexa gets a strange sense that they’ve had a similar conversation before.

She bristles.

“Mockery is not —”

“— the product of a strong mind. Yeah, I remember.”

The words sting, and Lexa flinches. It’s subtle, but Clarke notices, and she casts her eyes downward, slumping in her seat. She opens her mouth, maybe to apologize, but Lexa does not let her.

“It was foolish,” Lexa argues. “No Commander has ever —”

“I didn’t go into the City of Light to save the _Commander_ , Lexa,” Clarke interrupts, eyes back on hers, fiery and determined. “I went in there to save _you_.”

“The Commander and I are — were — one and the same.”

“You are more than just the Commander,” Clarke insists.

“You speak of what you do not understand, Clarke _kom Skaikru_.”

She does not understand that Lexa has never been more than the Commander (could never be more than the Commander). That she was not always the Commander, but everything she has done, everything she was, was to become the Commander.

“You may not be the Commander anymore, but you’re still here.” _With me._ “You’re still here, Lexa.”

“Not all of me,” Lexa murmurs. She looks away because she cannot stand to look at the pain that reflects on Clarke’s face. She wants to say more, wants Clarke to understand.

She wants Clarke to understand that what she means is:

 _The very essence of me, the part that belongs to my people_ — _my purpose_ — _is gone._

_All that’s left is bits and pieces that belong to people who no longer need me, and people who are no longer in this world._

What she means is:

_The part of me that belonged to you is gone._

“I won’t apologize for saving your life. I just — I couldn’t just sit back and watch you die.”

“And I did not die. You have guided my spirit back into this world, Clarke. But this — this isn’t something you can fix.”

What she means is:

_I need to learn what it means to belong to myself._

“I have to try.”

“Not this time.”

There's a sharp intake of breath, and when Lexa looks up, Clarke is staring at her, eyes wide and hopeful. It takes Lexa a moment before her own words catch up to her, and it’s there again, this niggling feeling that this should be familiar. It washes over her, and all of a sudden she’s grasping, searching the depths of her mind — only to come up empty.

So she doesn't say anything, and neither does Clarke.

Clarke does not ask her to go to Arkadia with her again. And when she leaves, Lexa does not ask her to stay.

 

//

 

It occurs to Lexa later that night that since waking up, all her time and energy has been spent trying to make sense of this world she woke up in, this world that is suddenly so different from the one she remembers.

For one night, she wants to stop trying to remember, to let herself forget. Or rather, she just wants to immerse herself in memories that do not hurt:

Costia in the mornings — untamed hair, sleepy smile, close enough for Lexa to count the freckles on her nose.

Costia’s hands, always so soft and smooth and gentle, even when she’s furious, so furious, because Lexa had been careless _again_ and it’s the third time she’s had to visit the healer’s tent in a week.

Costia’s laughter, rich and unbridled and infectious and just _everywhere_ — shoulders quaking, head tossed back, hair flying all over the place.

(Anya, scowling, hating it. Lexa, grinning, loving it.)

Anya, livid because her brash, foolish _Seken_  dared to challenge another twice her size to a _soulou gonplei_ for the heart of the girl she loves. Anya, plucking her by the scruff of her shirt while Roma drags her own _Seken_  away by his ear, because _only a gona can issue or accept a challenge, and neither of you goufa are even close to becoming one._

(Costia, sneaking into the stables to find her cleaning up after Anya’s horse later that night.

“You were foolish. Brave, but foolish. You do not have to challenge another for my heart, Lexa. You already have it.”

Lexa, and her toothy grin that slips away when Costia turns to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To sleep. I have training with Nyko at dawn. And you smell.”

“You won’t help me?”

“No. Anya would not forgive me if I relieved you of your punishment. Besides, I do not want to smell like you do.”

Lexa, and her frown that melts away as soon as Costia kisses her on the cheek.

Costia, with a sly wink before she disappears outside.)

Anya, and the subtle quirk of her lips the first time Lexa knocks her on her back in training.

(Her scowl, as it becomes a more common occurrence.)

Anya, grumbling under her breath about lovesick _branwada_ before stomping away, conveniently allowing them a few private moments that grow scarce as they get older.

Anya, and her tight grip on Lexa’s forearm, firm even as Lexa slackens her grip. Only when Lexa meets her steady stare does Anya relinquish her hold, nodding stiffly _._ Then, and only then, does Lexa’s nervousness simply fall away, chest swelling with both pride and a courage that she carries with her as she leaves for her Conclave.

(“Lexa. Be... smart.”

She means: Be careful.

“Not strong?”

“You are already strong.”

“Am I not smart?”

A snort. Then —

“Go.”

A determined nod. Then —

“I will be smart.”

She means: I will make you proud.)

But these memories are now tinged with sadness, with the painful knowledge that she will never experience them again. Tainted with the horrors of her mind as it tries to fill the gaps, tries to recreate what she does not wish to remember:

Costia’s eyes, wide open, lifeless. Her torture, her grisly death — all because Lexa had been weak.

Anya’s face, dirtied, bloodied, as she takes her last breath for an alliance that did not last.

(The memories, they all hurt.)

Lexa wants to forget.

(Lexa wants to remember.)

It is weakness to run from one’s past, she tells herself, but an even greater weakness to dwell in it.

Tomorrow she returns to _Tondisi_. Tomorrow she becomes a warrior again.

Tomorrow there will be no more room for weakness.

But tonight she is no one.

So tonight, she lets herself be weak.

Tonight, she lets herself cry.

 

//

 

Clarke is nowhere to be found.

Balt is nowhere to be found as well, having gone to see to a woman in labor shortly after accepting Lexa’s gratitude and bidding her farewell. But Lexa has not seen Clarke since her departure the previous day, and while Clarke has made no promises to return, she has visited Lexa every day during her recovery.

Next to her, Myles — the guard sent by Indra to escort her back to _Tondisi_ — checks that the bag tied to the horse is secure. It’s his second effort made on her behalf. She lingers near the healer’s tent, eyes wandering past neighboring tents and the sporadic activity around her.

It is all too soon when he approaches her, head bowed apologetically, and something akin to disappointment curls at the pit of her stomach. She returns the gesture, grateful for his deliberate delay. Resigned, she walks over to the horse, patting its neck. Her hand glides over to the saddle, her foot finding the stirrup. As she readies herself to mount the horse, she sees a flash of golden hair, and —

“Wait!”

“Clarke,” she says, relieved. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

“I wasn’t either,” Clarke confesses. “But I didn’t want…”

Lexa nods, understanding. She did not want to leave without saying goodbye either. “What will you do now?”

Clarke shrugs. “Arkadia sustained some damages during the coup. I should… go back to help. I’ve been away long enough.” She pauses. “They’re holding off elections until a bulk of the rebuilding is complete, so I should be there for that, too.”

Lexa furrows her brow, recalling what Clarke has told her about her people. It seems foolish to leave a clan without formal leadership when it is still recovering from war, and even more to allow the same people to keep choosing their leaders when it was their poor choices that led to that war. Her body flushes with worry — for Clarke’s well-being, for alliances with other clans that are still tenuous at best.

“They need time to grieve for those they’ve lost,” Clarke explains with another shrug. “I think — I hope — it’ll help them see the bigger picture. I’d hate for them to just forget —” She stops, realizing.

“It’s okay,” Lexa says. She wants to say more, wants to make sure that Clarke will be safe. The Lexa that Clarke knew would have wanted it.

(The Lexa standing in front of Clarke wants it too.)

But Clarke has a longer journey ahead of her, and while Myles has been patient, she does not want to cause more delay. So she holds out her forearm, ready to bid Clarke farewell.

Clarke blinks, taken aback. Lexa curls her fingers back self-consciously, uncertain if she should retract her arm. She briefly wonders if _Skaikru_ are simply unacquainted with their customs, but the way that Clarke stares at her proffered arm — seeing but unseeing — tells Lexa that that is not the case.

And all of a sudden Clarke is right in front of Lexa, arms thrown around her shoulders as their bodies knock together clumsily. Lexa’s arm falls limply at her side, stunned. The surprise wears off quickly, and there’s a soft _oh_ that escapes Lexa’s lips as she realizes what’s happening. It unsettles her, because _this is a hug_ , and the only ones she remembers receiving were from —

And Clarke, Clarke notices, because how could she not when she can precisely feel the way Lexa tenses in her arms? But just as Clarke begins to loosen her hold, Lexa brings her hands to Clarke’s hips, squeezing lightly to let her know it’s okay before they settle on the small of her back.

Because Clarke needs this.

Clarke, who’s been nothing but patient with Lexa. Who keeps coming back to care for Lexa in any way she’ll allow. Who leaves at the end of the day, simply because Lexa needs her to keep some distance. Clarke, whose body trembles slightly before she relaxes, sinking into Lexa with a shaky breath.

“We'll meet again,” Clarke mumbles, burrowing her face deeper into Lexa’s shoulder.

Lexa’s eyes flutter shut instinctively, because the words somehow sound familiar but not quite right, like she’s heard something similar before. She pushes the thought away, her mind clouding with a different sense of familiarity as she breathes deeply, greeted by a scent that is in some way so distinctly… Clarke. She’s not entirely sure what that means, does not recognize it the way her body does — the way her body sags, almost in relief.

(And Lexa, maybe she needs it a little bit too.)

The moment ends too soon, broken by the chatter of two villagers passing by, making them all too aware of their surroundings. Lexa clears her throat awkwardly, then they’re fumbling to extricate themselves from each other, Lexa’s fingers uncurling from the soft fabric of Clarke’s shirt and Clarke’s fingers getting tangled in Lexa’s hair along the way.

Lexa takes a step back, hands clasped together behind her back, shoulders straightened once again. It does not escape her notice the way Clarke’s fingers curl at her sides, thumbs fiddling with the hem of her shirt. Lexa’s hands clench in response, itching to reach out and recover the momentary comfort they’d both drawn from the embrace.

“Go,” she says, her voice soft. “Your people need you.”

Clarke nods, eyes shining, and with one last searching look, she turns and walks away.

Lexa turns to Myles, finding him still standing dutifully next to the horse, eyes averted. It’s only when Lexa approaches him that he looks up, tipping his head to acknowledge her presence. She returns the gesture, a silent thanks for waiting, for allowing her a private moment.

There is still a sadness that weighs on her, mixed in with the apprehension of what’s to come, but she feels lighter than she has in days. So when Myles offers his hand, she takes it without protest, lets him help her up on the horse.

And as he begins to guide her horse away from Polis, she closes her eyes and sees them again — Costia with her easy smile and Anya with her usual glare — and her heart twinges because that image is no longer waiting for her at the end of her journey, no longer waiting for her at home.

Perhaps _Tondisi_ isn’t even home anymore, but she’s going somewhere, and perhaps that’s enough for now.

She opens her eyes, casting one last lingering look towards Clarke’s retreating back, and her mind flashes to golden hair and blue eyes and a dimpled chin, to soft hands and a fond smile and _you’re okay_ and — _you’re still here, Lexa_. She’s still here, even if she should not be. She’s here because Clarke refused to give up on her — and perhaps, because her spirit refused to give up as well.

She thinks about Costia again, about Anya. She feels a cool breeze on her skin, soft and comforting, and for a moment she swears she can hear a familiar laughter in the distance, rich and unbridled; can hear a reminder in an unmistakable voice, calm and measured.

Behind her, Polis slowly fades from view, the Commander’s tower now barely visible — and Lexa does not notice. She keeps her head held high, eyes straight ahead.

“I will be smart,” Lexa murmurs. It’s a promise, and she thinks that somewhere, Anya and Costia hear it.


	2. show me where my armor ends (show me where my skin begins)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to all the folks who kept bugging me to work on this, looked over this fic, and most of all, put up with all my whining bc writing is the Worst: Jem, fluffy Emily, angsty Em, Sheree, Sammi, Steph, Eva, Madi, Hustla, Athena, Faye...
> 
> (Esp Jem who puts up with the Most.)
> 
> Chapter title from Sleeping At Last - Pluto.

The journey to _Tondisi_ is a short one, but it takes her a full day on horseback. Her wound is mostly healed, but she still has to take two breaks. Myles does not comment, and for that she is grateful.

Indra is there to meet her when she arrives.

“Lexa,” she greets in a gruff tone. There is a flash of uncertainty on her face, as if she is still unused to addressing Lexa by anything other than her title. Her _former_ title. But as soon as it comes, it goes, and Lexa grasps the offered forearm in greeting.

“Chief.”

 

//

 

That night she dreams of hair the color of the sun and eyes the color of the sky. She dreams of _not yet_ and _maybe someday_ , of kisses that taste of tears and hope, and of arms that feel like home.

She wakes up and tastes salt on her lips, and it takes her a minute to realize that she’d been crying in her sleep.

She does not remember any of it in the morning.

 

//

 

She does not remember, but the impressions linger — echoes of a warmth that is so strange yet so familiar. They linger long after she has left the confines of her tent and picked up her sword to start the first day of her new life. They linger, even as she returns and closes her eyes, trying to reconcile the gaping nothingness in her mind with the beginnings of… something taking root in her heart.

Hope.

Home.

 

//

 

 _I am Lexa kom Trigedakru_ , she reminds herself.

 _I have seen twenty summers. Anya and Costia are_ —

 _I am Lexa kom Trigedakru. I have seen twenty summers. Anya and Costia are dead. I was the Commander of the Twelve_ — _no, Thirteen_ — _Clans. I have served my people well._

_I am Lexa kom Trigedakru…_

 

//

 

The warriors do not want to fight alongside her.

Lexa is aware of the whispers at camp — she’s seen the warriors from her unit hunched over a fire, speaking in hushed voices, spreading tales of the legendary _Wanheda_. They speak of how _Wanheda_ commanded death, burning three hundred of their own alive, bringing down the _Maunon_ on her own. They speak of how she commanded death to spare the life of the previous _Heda_.

Her unit leader looks at her with distrust in his eyes. Jax has fought many battles for her before, and he sees her a threat to his rank. She does not bother to tell him that it is unnecessary. She has all her memories of being a _Seken_ and none as a commander of armies.

Many are hesitant to spar with her during training, and some are afraid to meet her eyes. They think her to be some kind of bad omen. They believe she should not have survived.

Some nights, when she is alone in her tent and sleep evades her, she wonders if they are right.

 

//

 

Her unit is tasked with defending one of the nearby villages one morning. There has been an increase in banditry recently, and Arling has suffered the greatest losses. There is no activity for days, and Lexa volunteers for most of the patrols, unable to handle being idle for too long. She tells her unit leader that it will be wise to have eyes in the trees, that the bandits will not attack given their obvious presence in the village, but her suggestions fall on deaf ears.

The locals are friendlier to her than the warriors she traveled with. She is unsure if they recognize her, but if they do, they do not acknowledge it, and for that she is thankful. She spends her free time with the grandson of one of the village elders. He comes from a family of _tila_ but is more interested in learning how to wield a sword than he is a spade. Her sword is much too big and heavy for him, but it does not stop him from attempting to pick it up until he can carry it without losing his balance.

“You have a warrior’s spirit,” she tells him when he finally succeeds. “You will make a fine _Seken_ someday.”

“ _Sha_ ,” he says proudly, puffing out his chest as he grins up at her, “but I want _you_ to be my _Fos._ ”

His declaration tugs at her heart, and she’s seven again, smaller than the other _goufa_ her age, trailing behind a surly Anya. She’s seven again, hearing _nou_ more times than she can count, because Anya has no interest in taking on a _Seken_ , but no one can do what Anya can with twin blades. She’s seven again, getting into trouble for hitting another _goufa_ for saying that she’ll never become a real _gona_ because no one would ever want to train her; seven again, overcome with fear — at the towering figure that suddenly appears next to her, at the firm, warning hold on her shoulder — then joy, because despite the brusque tone, _I apologize for the actions of my Seken_ and _I will be responsible for her punishment_ are the best things she’s heard in all her seven summers _._

She kneels down to the boy’s level, trying to muster a smile. He is very young — but not much younger than she was when she began her training. She coughs, trying to dispel the sudden tightness in her throat, and it occurs to her that perhaps she is the one who is not ready.

“When I am fit to take on a _Seken,_ ” she says, looking into bright, hopeful eyes, “you’ll be the first one I think of.”

“And I will protect _ai stegeda_ from the bad men!”

“ _Sha_ , your village will be fortunate to have you as its protector.”

He smiles at her, so wide and earnest, and it’s only when Lexa’s cheeks begin to hurt that she realizes she’s smiling right back.

 

//

 

Jax gives them orders to pack just short of a moon’s cycle later. The news does not sit well with Lexa, who is not as convinced as her fellow _gonakru_ that the bandits have moved on.

“You are making a mistake,” she insists. “We cannot abandon these people.”

“You will obey your orders,” Jax warns, and with a wave of his hand the two _gona_ nearest to Lexa grab her. She throws out an elbow, smashing it against the nose of the one on her right and turns, landing a swift kick to the one on her left. She hears others rushing to their aid and turns to face them, faltering at the sight of their drawn swords. Her hand hovers over the hilt of her own sword uncertainly. It is one thing to take the life of an enemy, but to take the life of your fellow _gona_ without a direct order is an act punishable by death of a thousand cuts.

“ _Beja_ ,” she says, eyes flitting around wildly at the faces in front of her. The warriors advance carefully, but they grip their swords without hesitation, and her stomach lurches with the realization that she is the enemy to them right now, that they are acting under orders to… She shakes her head. “I do not wish to fight you,” she tries again, “but I will not abandon —”

There is a movement behind her, but before she can turn, she feels a hard blow to the back of her head.

Then, nothing.

 

//

 

She wakes with a splitting headache, and it takes her a moment to figure out where she is — on a cart, hands and legs bound, mouth gagged. One of the warriors pulling on the cart says something she doesn’t catch, and a few seconds later she hears the sound of a horse next to the cart. She tries to lift her head, groaning at the pain that results from it, and blinks sluggishly at the sight of her unit leader sneering down at her.

“You will pay for your insolence, _Natrona_.”

She does not even attempt a retort, does not tug on her restraints, knowing both are futile. She shifts to lie on her back instead, turning her head the other direction. Her face burns with shame as the weight of her actions finally hits her, that she had openly defied her superior. She should not have let her heart rule over her head. She wishes more than ever that she still had Anya’s guidance.

_Be… smart._

She misses Anya.

_You were foolish. Brave, but foolish._

She misses Costia.

_You’re okay. You’re still here._

She misses… Clarke.

The last thought is not as surprising as the first time it came to her. She had hoped that returning to _Tondisi_ would bring her a sense of familiarity, of comfort, but the truth is, the only time she’d felt any of that was during the fortnight she spent in Polis recuperating — was during the time she spent with Clarke.

Missing Clarke is not new, but Lexa has yet to learn to welcome it. It’s complicated, laced with guilt — of betraying the memory of a love she has not quite made peace with losing — and anger — of being robbed an honorable death — and shame — of wishing for the presence of someone who has seen her at her weakest. But even as she wills it away, her mind fills with yellow hair and blue eyes and —

 _Jok_ , she thinks. Clarke is going to kill her when she finds out the predicament she has gotten herself into.

 

//

 

She does not remember drifting off to sleep, but she wakes up with nothing more than a dull ache in her limbs. She groans, moving to sit up, only to be stopped by a firm hand keeping her head in place.

“Hold still.”

Nyko.

She blinks, suddenly aware of her surroundings — the inside of Nyko’s tent, hands moving behind her with practiced ease, the effects of a numbing salve, the sound of snipping as Nyko finishes stitching the wound on the back of her head.

“How long was I out?”

“I do not know. You were brought to me already unconscious.”

“Why are you helping me?” Surely, there is no point in being seen to by a _fisa_ when she will likely require one again after her punishment has been meted (if she is fortunate).

“Jax does not command as much as he wishes. Word has been sent to the Chief. She will decide what is just.” Nyko extends a hand, helping her to an upright position.

“ _Mochof,_ Nyko.”

“Do try to stay out of trouble this time,” he says, offering a small smile that brings her back to a time when bones that needed to be set and cuts that needed to be stitched up were caused by simpler mistakes.

“Lexa,” he calls out before she exits his tent. She pauses in her step but does not turn back to address him. “It might not mean much, but I do believe you made the right decision.”

 _It does mean something_ , Lexa thinks. But just as it isn’t for Jax to decide, it is not for Nyko either.

She nods curtly and goes.

 

//

 

Indra storms into _Tondisi_ before dawn even breaks. Lexa squares her shoulders and keeps her chin held high. The only evidence of her nerves remains hidden behind her back where her hands remain clasped, a thumb moving to rub against the bruising on her wrists absent-mindedly as she waits for orders for her arrest.

It never comes.

Indra does bark out an order, but it's Jax who is restrained, who finds himself strung up against the pole at the center of the village square. Lexa draws a sharp breath as realization sets in. She tries to will away the dread that pools at the pit of her stomach as she watches the scene unfold in front of her.

_No._

“ _Branwada_ ,” Indra says, lips pulled back in a menacing snarl as she circles him, “you will pay for the sixteen deaths you have caused with your willful negligence.”

_No. No no no —_

Her eyes glaze over, the chorus of _jus drein jus daun_ nothing more than a faint murmur, mere background noise to the erratic pounding that fills her ears, and _jok_ , surely her heart has managed to break free of its cage and is trying to — She swallows hard, throat growing thick and heavy. Her feet move of their own accord, bringing her closer to the scene even as her mind shouts at her to turn and run as far away as her legs will take her, and all of a sudden she finds herself next to Indra. She looks into angry eyes, searching for any sign of remorse. She finds none.

“ _Natrona_ ,” he all but spits out, sneering down at her.

She realizes then that she is shaking — from disbelief, from regret, from _fury_ — all of it swirling inside of her, then she is stepping forward, fist flying out, smashing into his nose. He grunts in pain as his head snaps back from the force.

“No,” she says, gritting her teeth,  “you let them die. _You_ are the _natrona_.”

“ _Em pleni_ ,” Indra calls out from behind her. It snaps her out of her daze, and she steps back, taking deep breaths in an effort to calm herself.

But then Indra is raising a hand to quiet the crowd, is letting Jax (and the entire village) know, in no uncertain terms, that she believes he deserves nothing less than death by a thousand cuts — only to announce that he will be brought to Polis to be tried in front of the Commander.

“ _Jus no drein jus daun_ is the new way,” Indra declares. “ _Heda_ will see to it that he gets the punishment that he deserves. Anyone who tries to enact their own brand of justice shall be bound and taken to Polis for trial as well.”

Lexa’s hand itches for the dagger strapped to her thigh, and it takes all her restraint to keep herself from ending his fight right there. And then it’s too much: looking at his bloodied face, his broken nose — a far cry from what he truly deserves, knowing he might be permitted more mercy than the raiders have likely given the people of Arling.

The crowd begins to disperse, an air of discontent and disagreement among them as they return to their homes. She does not miss the way some of them look at her, disdain written plainly on their faces — they know that it’s her fault. That _jus no drein jus daun_ had been her last formal decree as Commander.

“Lexa,” a voice calls out — perhaps Indra or perhaps even someone else — but she barely hears it. Her feet are already taking her away, moving quickly to take her back to the safety of her tent. She does not make it back before the bile rises from her throat, and she sinks to her knees, emptying the contents of her stomach.

That night she thinks of sixteen lives, imagines sixteen pairs of kind eyes and outstretched hands. She thinks about how taking one life will not make up for the others lost, will not give the grieving families their loved ones back — but surely, this cannot be it.

 _If death has no cost, life has no worth_ , Anya had taught her _._ Just as Anya’s own _Fos_ had taught her before. How could she have turned her back on that?

She falls asleep to the echoes of _jus drein jus daun_ in her head.

 

//

 

Lexa isn’t sure if news of what happened has reached the _Skaikru_. Word about internal clan issues typically do not travel very far, but the land that _Skaikru_ inhabits is on _Trigedakru_ territory, and Lexa can’t help but wonder…

(She can’t help but wish...)

Lexa doesn’t know if she is more relieved or disappointed that Clarke does not come. She doesn’t want Clarke to worry about her, and she isn’t sure what she would say if Clarke showed up, but she cannot deny the comfort she had drawn from Clarke’s presence. The comfort Clarke’s presence would bring her.

Indra comes as quickly as she goes, leaving with a band of warriors to take Jax to Polis. She gives orders for Lexa’s unit to return to Arling, to stay indefinitely to help repair the destruction and defend the village. Another unit has also been dispatched to pursue the raiders, and as Lexa recalls her anger — hot, blinding, almost uncontrollable — she is somewhat glad that her unit has been tasked with reparations rather than retaliation.

 

//

 

“What happened at Arling was not your fault.”

There’s a flurry of movement outside as warriors from her unit prepare for their travel, and Lexa is anxious to do the same. But Nyko had shown up outside her tent, insistent on being the one to remove her stitches before her departure, and Lexa, not wanting to waste time arguing, had conceded. And it appears, from his attempt at conversation, that he had intended his visit to be more than that of a _fisa_.

Lexa does not want to talk about Arling. She would rather be packing up her tent and supplies or sharpening her sword. It seems, though, that Nyko is content with taking his time inspecting the wound on the back of her head.

“Were you there?” Lexa asks instead, having wondered since meeting him again. “When she…”  _Costia_. “...when she was captured.”

Nyko’s hands still for a moment. Then, “ _nou_ ,” he replies, resuming his movements, “she had been traveling, helping other villages that did not have a _fisa_.”

“Was she... happy?” _Did she live a happy life? Was she happy? With me._

“ _Sha_ , she was.”

“I wish…” Lexa trails off. _I wish she had never met me._

It’s a lie. Not a complete one, but a lie nevertheless. Because while she would rather Costia be a stranger than dead; while there’s a part of her that wonders if Costia would perhaps have been happier if their paths had not crossed; if this were truly to be her fate — to live, but to forget much — she does not want to give up any of the memories she has left, selfish as it may be.

“I am finished here,” Nyko declares, and she sags in relief. She moves to stand, to show him out, but his voice keeps her rooted in place. “I loved Costia as if she were _ai yongon_ ,” he says, his voice so soft, Lexa would not have heard if it weren’t for their close proximity.

 _I know_ , Lexa wants to say, _I know you lost her too_.

“I watched her grow to be the woman she was,” he continues, keeping his head dipped as he busies himself packing his tools — perhaps for her benefit, perhaps for his.

(Perhaps for both of theirs.)

“I knew her. And I know, I _know_... she did not regret being with you.”

Lexa chokes back a sob that threatens to escape. She’s not sure what to say to that, not sure how to feel — relieved, sad, bitter, all of it — but she does know that she owes Nyko her gratitude, because if nothing, his words have brought her some measure of comfort, some peace of mind. She extends her forearm, knowing it will convey everything she does not know how to articulate.

Nyko takes the proffered arm and gives it a soft squeeze. “What happened in Arling was not your fault,” he repeats, this time looking her straight in the eye. And with that, he releases her arm and exits her tent.

And Lexa, Lexa almost believes him.

 

//

 

The boy was among the sixteen.

 

//

 

The decision to leave the _gonakru_ is not an easy one, but it is the fitting option. The new unit leader is no less wary of her, and the warriors still do not trust her. While they do not openly challenge her, she hears the low, angry rumbles of _natrona_ being uttered behind her back. Some are still loyal to Jax, and the others blame her for _jus no drein jus daun_. She knows her presence is too much of a distraction and will only endanger the entire squadron should they find themselves caught in battle. They do not see her as their own, will never see her as their own.

The knowledge does not hurt her as it should. Her heart still aches for the lives she could not protect, for the people who have shown her nothing but kindness, for the boy who will never have the chance to realize his full potential as a warrior. (For the boy’s grandmother, who has had to bury another one of her _yongon_ , who held Lexa’s hand in hers, and _I know you tried your best, thank you for trying to stay._ ) And her mind is still consumed by rage, rage towards the leader who was too clouded by his pride and the warriors who chose to follow blindly. Perhaps she, too, can no longer see them as her own.

It is unfair to punish herself over the deeds of others, but it is simpler to change her own mind than it is to change the minds of an entire _gonakru_. And while she has always imagined her fight ending on a battleground, she refuses to have it end simply because another warrior refuses to guard her rear like she would theirs.

She stays until most of the damages have been repaired. Stays until she has seen for herself that this new unit leader is much more vigilant, much more capable. That while many of the _gonakru_ harbor some resentment towards her, they do not for the village they previously failed. ( _We will be okay_ , the boy’s grandmother had told her. _We will rebuild. We will heal. But you must, too._ )

She makes the trek back to _Tondisi_ to turn in her sword to Indra early one morning. The chief does not ask questions, but she tells Lexa to keep the sword. When they grasp each other’s forearm, Lexa does not think twice before (un)familiar words come tumbling out.

“May we meet again.”

 

//

 

The sword proves useful earlier than she expects.

She comes across a couple of bandits giving an elderly woman some grief at a trading post, and she doesn’t hesitate to unsheath her weapon and call out to them. The burly one with arms the size of her thighs and a scar that runs down the left side of his face turns to snarl menacingly, and the taller, wiry companion with the beady eyes sneers at her.

She stands her ground and waits for them to strike first.

What happens next is a bit of a blur, years of strict training propelling her hands and feet to move of their own accord. It is all muscle memory, all instinct, and it fills her with a familiar rush.

It takes her no more than ten moves before they are both bleeding, yelling curses as they make a hasty retreat. Her ears are still ringing when the woman approaches her, and she tries to drown out the sounds of weapons clashing in her head to hear what is being said.

The woman’s name is Soni. Her eyes are kind and her smile is warm when she takes one Lexa’s hands in both of hers. There’s a soft squeeze before a hand reaches up to pat her cheek, and —

“You’re okay, _yongon_.”

Her throat constricts at the simple gesture. Her mind flashes with a different pair of eyes — green, not brown, but just as kind (just as wise), remembers soothing words and exuberant laughter and easy affection from a time before the village discovered that she bled as dark as the night.

Still, when Soni gives her hand a gentle tug, Lexa allows herself to be led away. Soni leads her to a hut nearby, and Lexa sits at the table uneasily as Soni busies herself in the kitchen. Her back remains straight and her shoulders tense, and she opens her mouth multiple times to thank Soni for her hospitality and to tell her that she must be on her way — only to close it again.

Later, when Soni places a steaming bowl of stew in front of her, she finds that she is too hungry and too tired to decline.

(It’s only later, when she lays in a bed that is not her own, that she thinks about fast reflexes and moves she does not remember learning.)

 

//

 

Soni tells her that the extra room in her hut belonged to her youngest, and Lexa ignores the question on the tip of her tongue. She recognizes the wistful tone in the woman’s voice, recognizes it even if she has not spoken about Anya or Costia.

Soni does not ask where Lexa had been going, and for that Lexa is grateful. She tells Lexa that she is welcome to the room if she earns her keep. She is old now, she explains, and cannot keep up with the traders that frequent her post as much as she used to. Lexa surmises that Soni has seen a little over sixty summers, but Lexa suspects that Soni’s offer is more for her benefit.

“ _Mochof_ ,” she tells Soni once they have eaten and the table is cleared.

Soni smiles, reaching up to pat her cheek lightly as she had earlier in the day. “ _Pro, yongon_. _Pro._ ”

The bed is soft, much softer than what she is accustomed to, and it creaks when she moves too much, but it does not take long for sleep to overcome. Lexa’s dreams do not plague her that night, and for once, she sleeps well into the morning.

 

//

 

She misses Costia.

She misses Anya.

She misses… Clarke.

 

//

 

_I am Lexa kom Trigedakru._

_I have seen twenty summers. Anya and Costia are dead._

_I was the Commander of the Thirteen Clans. The Commander’s Spirit has left my body, but my spirit remains, guided back to this life by Clarke kom Skaikru._

_I have served my people well._

 

//

 

When she is not helping Soni at her post, Lexa hunts. Many of the traders are hunters themselves, offering dead rabbits and deer (and sometimes fish) in exchange for various items Soni has accrued in her post from other trades, but Lexa takes solace in the practice. It’s the only time she has need for a weapon these days, so even if she has more use for a dagger than a sword, it’s better than feeling… idle. Because as busy as it gets at the post sometimes, as much as Lexa has learned about haggling with difficult travelers and weighing quarry and smoking meat, it all still feels very… idle.

She is unused to living her life so… freely, so without the weight of expectations on her shoulders. She wished for this life once, many summers ago, when Anya had pushed too hard, had chastised her for wanting a day to herself. She dreamed of running away with Costia, going somewhere beyond the clans, somewhere where the color she bled did not dictate her training, her purpose. But she had stayed, out of duty to her _Fos_ , to her people.

Now, her only duty is to herself. Now, she knows that Anya had only been watching out for her, had wished her to survive, to succeed. Now, she wonders if Anya had ever known that she once wished to do more than that, if Anya ever saw it possible that Lexa could one day simply... live.

Because Lexa had survived. Lexa had succeeded. Now all there is, is to live. But Anya is gone. Costia is gone. And Lexa… Lexa isn’t quite sure how to do the rest.

 

//

 

She brings her quarries to Arling. They still welcome her. The warriors still keep their distance. The village is still rebuilding, still healing.

And Lexa, she’s still rebuilding, too. Still healing.

 

//

 

_“Good morning, Alexandria,” a soft voice greets her._

_“Too early,” she mumbles, burrowing her face deeper into her pillow. “And that is not my name.”_

_“No, but it is your namesake… and I like it.”_

_She turns her head to the side, keeping her eyes closed. Much too early. The sun has barely risen. “What’s wrong with my name?”_

_“Nothing. I love your name. But it’s… softer, like you are when you’re in my arms.”_

_“I am not soft,” she grumbles._

_“There’s nothing wrong with being soft, ai niron. And perhaps, I simply enjoy calling you whatever pleases me… while I’m still permitted. The day will come when I am required to only refer to you as Heda.”_

_Lexa huffs, rolling over to lie her back, slinging an arm over her eyes to block out the traces of light peeking through the tent flaps._

_“I would never ask you to call me that.”_

_“But I must. When you are Heda —”_

_“— If I am to become Heda, I would not require that of you. Not when we are alone.”_

_“Not even when I am between your furs?” The voice is teasing, and Lexa’s face flushes at the implication._

_“In here I am Lexa,” she replies. “In here I am yours.”_

_“And I, yours.”_

_“Good.”_

_A chuckle. Then, “See? Soft.”_

_Lexa extends her other arm. A hand finds hers easily, and their fingers intertwine._

_“Is it already time to rise?”_

_“Anya has not yet returned. You are permitted to lay a little longer.”_

_“Lay with me.”_

_“They require my assistance at the fisa’s tent soon.”_

_“Just for a while.”_

_There’s a hesitation, then the sound of shuffling before the soft padding of her cot sags to accommodate the added weight. She shifts to make room, and their bodies mold against each other, instinctively seeking the comfort of the other, relishing in the familiar heat. She drifts off to gentle fingers running through her hair and a soft, soothing voice._

_“Ai hod yu in, Lexa.”_

It is late morning when Lexa wakes. Her hand reaches out, patting the space next to her, only to find it empty. Cold. She sits up, rubbing her eyes tiredly. She wonders how much trouble she is in, but she is distracted from the thought as her surroundings come into focus:

Wooden walls. A real bed. The smell of some kind of stew, wafting in the air. Someone outside, humming. Someone who isn’t —

_Oh._

 

//

 

_I am Lexa kom Trigedakru._

_I have seen twenty summers. Anya and Costia are dead._

_Anya and Costia are dead._

 

//

 

A warrior shows up midmorning one day and challenges Lexa to a sparring match.

She says her name is Octavia _kom Trigedakru_. She states her clan like a challenge, like she is used to people refuting her claim. She tells Lexa that she is Indra’s _Seken_.

Lexa is wary of her, not because she does not remember her from her short time back at _Tondisi_ , but because the girl looks at her with a barely concealed contempt that feels… personal — and Lexa does not know why. She does not remember if their paths have crossed before, does not remember her actions as the Commander that could have warranted this hostility.

Lexa barely manages to wrap her fingers around the sparring staff thrown in her direction before Octavia strikes — hard, fast — and Lexa only manages to parry the blow in time. Octavia attacks with an intensity that leaves little room for retaliation, all aggression behind every move. Lexa feels the shock of every strike all the way up her arms, feels her arms begin to numb from blocking hit after hit.

Lexa knows she miscalculates the moment it happens — she does not recover from the momentum of a swing quick enough to twist her body out of the way. There is a swift kick to her side that nearly knocks the breath out of her lungs, and the next thing she knows, her staff is knocked out of her hands and her legs are swept from beneath her. She lands hard on her back, wincing at the pain that rattles her body.

She looks past the tip of Octavia’s staff under her chin, scowling at the self-satisfied smirk directed down at her.

“Thought you'd be better than this, _Commander._ ”

“ _Shof op_ ,” she bites back, shoving the staff away. She twists her body to push herself off the ground, a hot surge of irritation rising up her neck — towards this warrior, who clearly blames her for something she cannot recall; towards herself, for letting her frustration get the best of her in a fight. She’s better than this. She took on two grown men at the trade post the other day.

 _Anya would be so disappointed_ , she thinks.

“Again,” Octavia demands, gesturing towards the staff on the ground.

Lexa tilts her chin up defiantly, making no move to retrieve it. “No.”

“Not used to taking orders, _Commander_?”

“I do not take orders from a _Seken_ ,” Lexa says, gritting her teeth.

Octavia shrugs. “Orders from my _Fos_. Pick up the damn staff, _Lexa_.”

Somehow, having Octavia use her given name only fuels her ire. “No. Indra is not responsible for me. I am no longer a warrior in her ranks.”

“Look, the last thing I signed up for is babysitting duty. I'm just as thrilled as you are about it.”

“You seemed pretty thrilled to me.”

“Yeah, well. The part where I get to kick your ass is pretty sweet.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you so intent on… kicking my ass?”

“Do I need a reason? Maybe I just hate your smug face.”

“My face is not —”

“— Besides, what does it matter? You’re immortal, aren’t you? What with your extra lives and all that? How many did the great _Wanheda_ gift you with?”

And Lexa snaps.

Perhaps it is the taunts that she cannot be certain are misplaced, taunts from this person who should not be a stranger to her — or perhaps it is everything else — losing Costia, Anya, her memories, the boy, her purpose as _Heda_ , her purpose as a _gona_ … all without the knowledge of why the fights of those around her — close to her — continue to end, yet hers remains.

(Perhaps it is _she_ who should be called _Wanheda_.)

What happens next is a blur: a battle cry, almost a roar, erupting from the depths of her chest — anger, raw anger — surprise on Octavia’s face — a flurry of movement — a speed she did not know she possessed — a strength she did not know she possessed — red — she sees red —

She blinks, and everything comes back into focus — Octavia below her, split lip, one eye swollen shut —  her own hand curled tightly around the front of Octavia's shirt, other hand curled into a fist.

“I do not know what extra lives or immortality you speak of,” she grits out, and only then does she realize that she is shaking. She swallows hard, trying to rid herself of the metallic taste of her own blood. “But if I had it any other way, I would have chosen death. I would have chosen death over… this.”

She releases Octavia and stumbles backwards, falling on her back. She stares at the traces of blood on her right knuckles — red, a color not her own. She shuts her eyes and focuses on the dull throb that radiates from her hand, the aches on the rest of her body, using them to fill the gaps, to piece together the images that flit through her mind — disarming Octavia with her bare hands, barely flinching as Octavia lands a particularly hard kick, fists flying...

She shakes her head, willing her breathing to slow. This isn’t her. She is not one to let her frustration rule her mind in a fight. She is not one to miscalculate, not one to lose herself in battle — and certainly not one to resume attack when a sparring partner has already been bested.

_Anya would truly be disappointed._

She chances a look over at Octavia, attempting to muster an apology, only for it to die in her throat as Octavia swiftly pushes herself off the ground and picks up her staff — and _surely_ , she cannot be challenging Lexa to another match, not after —

Then Octavia is standing before her, shoulders squared, head held high, and a determined set in her jaw.

“ _Ge smak daun, gyon op nodotaim_ ” is all she says.

And Lexa stares. She stares, because there is a fire in Octavia’s eyes, but they do not burn with a renewed contempt that Lexa expects. Instead, they burn with a challenge.

Lexa stands and walks over to her previously abandoned staff. She picks it up, testing its weight in her hands, visualizing it an extension of her arms. Then she turns, shifting into a slight crouch, staff raised. _Ready._

“Again,” she says.

 

//

 

Much to Lexa’s surprise, Octavia returns in a fortnight. And every one after that. They do not speak of the first session, and Octavia’s bruises have begun to heal. Their sparring matches remain competitive, but the animosity between them has subsided a little.

 _“O? You there?”_ A muffled voice interrupts. It takes Lexa by surprise, who had not heard anyone approach. She turns her head to the direction of the voice, baffled to find no one there. Octavia takes advantage of her distraction, and Lexa lets out an undignified grunt when Octavia’s staff connects with her side.

“Ignore it,” Octavia says, wiping the sweat from her brow and raising her staff to a ready position again. “It's just Raven on the radio.”

Lexa furrows her brow, trying to place the familiar name. _The Skaikru mechanic_ , she finally recalls from one of Clarke’s stories.

There's an immediate question on the tip of her tongue. She nods nevertheless, ready to resume sparring. Octavia is clearly agitated, but she does not appear worried by any news the mechanic might bring.

She waits, studies Octavia’s footwork as the warrior prepares to charge, only to be halted when a voice speaks up again.

_“O...via? Come in.”_

Octavia sighs, setting her staff on the ground. “ _Hod op._ ”

Lexa drops her fighting stance, impatience overcome by curiosity as Octavia walks over to the pack she arrived with. Octavia kneels, reaching inside the pack and rummaging a bit before her hand emerges with the radio — which appears to be some form of communication _tek_. It is black in color, no wider than Octavia’s palm with a slender stick-like piece protruding from the top. Lexa looks on, fascinated as Octavia pushes a button and brings it close to her mouth.

“Kinda busy, Rae.”

_“Listen, I just wanted —”_

“Later, okay?” Octavia interjects, gripping the radio tighter. She takes a deep breath, exhaling sharply as she moves into a sitting position, crossing her legs. Then, in a softer voice: “We’ll talk later, I promise.”

She doesn’t wait for a response before she pushes another button — Lexa presumes it’s to end contact or shut it off — and drops the radio on top of her pack. She leans back against the tree behind her, suddenly looking wearier than Lexa’s ever seen her.

Lexa remains where she is, debating on whether she should insist on resuming their sparring session. Octavia makes the decision for her.

“Let’s — can we take a break?”

Lexa gives a short nod, deciding it best not to argue. She glances towards Soni’s hut, knowing she’s not expected anytime soon. She sets her staff on the ground gently, moving to a sitting position that mimics Octavia’s, making sure to keep a few paces distance away.

Octavia rolls her eyes at this. Her hand disappears back into her pack and reemerges with a canteen that she takes a long drink from before tossing it in Lexa’s direction. Lexa catches it with ease, looking at it uncertainly, and Octavia huffs impatiently.

“It’s not poisoned.”

Lexa blinks, the thought not having even crossed her mind. But Octavia looks like she’s about to make another comment, so she uncaps the canteen and brings it to her lips, taking a few sips before returning it.

They settle into a silence after that. It is uncomfortable for Lexa, who isn’t sure if that had been some sort of peace offering, who isn’t used to an Octavia that isn’t actively trying to knock her out. Her mind wanders to the short exchange on the radio, to this Raven who seemed insistent on speaking with Octavia. Raven, who is at the _Skaikru_ camp, where Clarke very likely still is.

“Has something happened?” Lexa asks, rubbing the back of her neck anxiously. “With the _Skaikru_.” _With Clarke._

Octavia appears briefly taken aback by the question.

“No.”

Lexa nods, accepting the answer. They appear poised to enter another period of silence, so she opens her mouth, only for Octavia to speak up first.

“Raven was just — she’s just trying to apologize for _letting_ my idiot brother steal her radio the other day.”

“Bellamy,” Lexa supplies needlessly.

“Yeah.” Octavia pauses, pursing her lips. “He wants to talk, or whatever. Apparently avoiding him the entire time I was helping out at Arkadia wasn’t enough of a hint.”

“You are angry with him.”

Octavia shrugs. “I’m angry at a lot of people.”

“Was that why you left?”

“Why did _you_ leave?”

Lexa is caught off guard by the question being redirected at her. She pauses, trying to think of the simplest way to respond before she settles on: “It’s what was best for my people.”

“You still consider them your people.”

It’s a statement, but Lexa hears the question in it all the same.

“I was born _Trigedakru_ ,” she explains with a slight shrug of her own. “It’s in my blood.”

“Yeah, well,” Octavia says, all bitterness in her tone, “sometimes blood isn’t enough.”

“Is that why you are no longer _Skaikru_?”

“It’s why I’m no longer anything.”

“You introduced yourself —”

“Yeah, I know what I said. Look, it was easier. I just wanted to get to the part where I got to kick your ass.”

Lexa smiles wryly. “If I recall, I also… kicked your ass.”

Octavia shrugs, and Lexa thinks she sees the beginnings of a genuine smile on Octavia’s face. “There was a good amount of ass kicking on both sides, so I can’t really complain.”

Lexa hums in agreement, mind wandering back to their first encounter — or rather, Lexa’s first remembered encounter with Octavia. She would not have imagined that they could be capable of sitting together, conversing with more civility than hostility. Her mind still fills with questions that she’s had since meeting Octavia, but she does not wish to ruin this newfound — perhaps temporary — truce they seem to have achieved.

“Why do you choose to stay with the _Trigedakru_?” She finally asks, deciding it a more neutral question.

Octavia appears to ponder over the question.

“Short answer: I couldn’t stand staying in Arkadia after everything.”

“And the long answer?”

“Look,” Octavia says, shifting in her seat to stretch out her legs. “Indra is my people. And… as much as I hate to admit it, so are what’s left of the hundred. Raven, too, even if I can’t stand her stubborn ass sometimes. I stuck around because they are still my people. My clan.”

“ _Okteiviakru_ ,” Lexa muses out loud.

“Yeah,” Octavia says, sighing with what seems like relief. “That sounds nice. Think the new Commander will let us sign up as the Fourteenth Clan?”

Lexa sobers at the question. There is no malice behind it, but it carries with it an unintended heaviness that settles on Lexa’s chest. And Lexa wishes, wishes that she could ignore it, wishes she could prolong this unexpected (but not entirely unwelcome) moment of levity between them.

“I don’t know what the new Commander would do,” Lexa says, and she almost winces at the severity in her tone. “Just as I do not know what the previous Commander would have done.”

Octavia gives her a long, searching look.

“I was ready to leave this all behind after the war,” she says after a while. “I thought there was nothing left for me. The _Skaikru_ punished me for even existing and the _Trikru_ abandoned us. Lincoln _was_ my people.” She stops, eyes wandering to the space above Lexa’s shoulder, and Lexa’s heart clenches with the immediate comprehension of who Lincoln had been to Octavia.

“He wanted to stay,” Octavia continues. “To make a difference. He believed we could be both _Skaikru_ and _Trikru_. He wanted peace. He wanted…” She trails off, eyes shining. “He was too honorable for his own good, and they killed him for it. He _was_ my people, and now he’s gone.”

"I just think — maybe it's not so bad all the time,” Octavia adds, finally meeting Lexa’s gaze. "Maybe… maybe there's stuff worth forgetting."

“Would you choose to forget if you had the choice?”

Lexa watches as Octavia appears to mull over the question, but she knows the answer before she hears it. She knows, because even if the weight — of losing Costia, of losing Anya — is too hard to bear at times, even if there are times when she wishes for a bit of reprieve from the crushing guilt of forgetting, of surviving, of one day moving on — she knows that a life without knowing Costia, without knowing Anya, is a much crueler fate.

“No,” Octavia says. “It would dishonor him to choose to forget. I don’t ever want to — I could never —” Her voice hitches, and there is a visible clench in her jaw. Lexa looks away to allow her a moment to compose herself, only returning her gaze when Octavia clears her throat. “Bell said they need me. That _he_ needs me there. But leaving... it was best for me.”

Lexa nods. She thinks about leaving the _Trigedakru_ , of shedding her armor and walking away with nothing but a sword and the scars on her body to remind her of who she had once been — a Commander, a warrior. A sword that she still sharpens, still carries with her, but no longer has use for. Scars that serve as empty reminders of battles she does not remember fighting, blood and sweat she does not remember shedding.

It should hurt more, she thinks, to leave the only life she’s ever known. But the newer marks on her body — the cuts and bruises from hunting and sparring — she remembers how she earned every single one of them. She runs her fingers over them sometimes, memorizes them. And sometimes — _sometimes_ — she swears she can feel her spirit start to make its home inside of her again, could feel it filling her bones, filling every new bump and ridge she traces on her skin.

On those days, her body no longer feels like a strange vessel. On those days, she thinks she can finally make sense of why her spirit has chosen to remain inside her body.

(And on those days, she does not have to remind herself that those scars are no less honorable than the ones she does not remember earning.)

So she nods. She nods, because leaving was best for her people, but perhaps —

“I think leaving was best for me, too.”

 

//

 

They do not resume their sparring that day, both too drained from the conversation they had. Lexa does not remember Lincoln, and perhaps it is not quite the same — his death, fresh in Octavia’s memory; Costia and Anya’s deaths, lost in Lexa’s — but Lexa empathizes with Octavia’s loss all the same. It sits on her chest, and Lexa thinks it should feel heavier, that her heart should feel heavier, but as they sit across from each other, shoulders sagged, near mirror images of each other, Lexa is surprised that she feels as if a weight has been lifted.

And it is… strange, this sudden camaraderie between them, born out of shared burdens — and certainly new. Lexa isn’t quite sure what to make of it.

It is perhaps why, when Lexa stands up to walk back to Soni’s hut, she finds herself extending an invitation. She doesn’t know if she is more surprised by her offer or Octavia’s acceptance.

Lexa finds that Soni has not returned from the trade post when they reach her hut. Octavia seats herself on one of the two chairs, eyes flitting around, studying the space with barely disguised curiosity. Lexa joins her at the table, tilting her head in anticipation for a question (or five, since Octavia does not seem to be one to hold back). But it doesn’t come, so Lexa slides over some of the dried meat that Soni had laid out on the table for her instead.

They sit in quietly, picking at the food. It brings Lexa back to meals shared with the other _Seken_ around the fire after an especially long day at the training grounds. It was tense at times, many of them still wound up — from being bested by the others, from hard lessons drilled into them by their own _Fos_ — and far too exhausted to converse with each other until their bellies were full and their moods lifted. Gaspar, one of the other _Seken_ with a penchant for embellishing his stories, often felt the need to fill the silence. It always annoyed Lexa, whose own _Fos_ demanded more of her than the others. Often still disgruntled by Anya’s most recent critique of her form, she was more content to finish the rest of her meal in peace and retreat into her tent as soon as possible.

She finds herself wondering if Gaspar is in a village somewhere disturbing the quiet among his fellow _gona_ , or if his fight has already ended. Perhaps she should try to emulate him. Surely, even the idle chatter she typically loathes is better than this.

“How is your training with Indra?” She tries, clearing her throat uncomfortably.

“Good.”

“That's… good.”

Lexa has to restrain herself from glaring at the way Octavia tears apart a piece of meat before shoving the smaller piece into her mouth without a care in the world. Her mind drifts to other possible topics — training with other _Seken_ , or Indra’s well-being perhaps, or… she bites her lip nervously, wondering if she should ask. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, her courage failing her. She looks away, eyes landing on the ewer on the table.

“Water?” She blurts out, gesturing towards the ewer. Octavia looks at the ewer and back at her, lip curled up in amusement at her obvious discomfort, and this time Lexa lets herself glare (just a little). “It’s not poisoned,” Lexa adds.

Octavia chuckles, shaking her head. Then,

“Got anything stronger?”

 

//

 

The _fayowada_ that Lexa had traded for a few days ago does well to ease any remaining tension. They are both well into their second drink when Lexa, emboldened, finally asks.

“Clarke… is one of the hundred… isn’t she?” She tries to keep her tone light.

Octavia snorts. “Why don’t you just ask what you want to ask, Commander?”

“I told you not to —”

“Relax, it’s a nickname.”

“How is she?” Lexa asks, choosing to let the matter slide for the sake of her curiosity.

“She’s in Polis, for the Summit. Now that Kane is the Chancellor, the Commander is initiating _Skaikru_ as the Thirteenth Clan again.”

“Oh,” Lexa says, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, “is… _Skaikru_ what’s best for her?”

Octavia snorts. “They’re a bunch of ungrateful idiots. But Clarke will never leave as long as her people need her.”

Lexa nods. From what Clarke had told her, Clarke has been some sort of leader to her people, even if she never officially carried the title. Regardless, Clarke had worked — still works — tirelessly for the good of her people. And Lexa, Lexa wants very badly to believe that Indra and Clarke had been telling the truth when they said that she too had served her people well.

She studies Octavia, watching as she drinks from her cup. She recalls Octavia’s anger, and while she does not have to guess what Octavia thinks of her time as _Heda_ , there’s a part of her that wants to ask anyway. But before she opens her mouth to ask, Octavia speaks up again.

“I blamed her, you know,” Octavia reveals, “for Lincoln.”

“What changed?”

“There are others who deserve it more,” Octavia mutters darkly. “Besides, if I had the chance to save him, I would have stayed too. Lincoln took that choice from me. I think… I think a part of me will always be mad at him for that.”

“I didn’t quite give her a choice.”

“Yeah, well, she still got one, didn’t she?” Octavia snarks, taking a particularly long drink from her cup. It seems to calm her down somewhat, the crease in her brow softening as she leans forward, thumbing the chip on the side of her cup thoughtfully. “She came back, even if all they — we — did was blame her.”

She, too, had blamed Clarke, she thinks with a stab of guilt — for saving her life, for trying to help. Clarke went back to the _Skaikru_ even if… even if they do not deserve her. But Clarke has not visited, has not… come back to her.

“Does she know where I am?”

“Do you _want_ her to know where you are?” There’s a teasing lilt to Octavia’s tone, and Lexa flounders a little, unused to dealing with someone whose mood swings back and forth as quickly as Octavia.  

“I wish… to be better first. She deserves…” _all of me._

She still does not understand her feelings for Clarke. Because she cannot think of Clarke without thinking of Costia. Because she cannot reconcile her last image of Costia before her Conclave — her brave smile and worried eyes, and _go, go and return to me_ — with the image her dreams have conjured — Costia, lifeless, gone because of her. Because she thinks of Clarke, worried, but hopeful — and she can’t help but hope, too. Hope that the warmth that lingers long after she wakes, the undeniable longing that simply will not disappear from dreams she cannot quite recall — that she would one day feel the weight of what she once felt again.

She still does not understand, but she knows. Clarke deserves all of her.

_I must have loved you a lot._

“I think she’ll want to see you.”

It dawns on her then that perhaps she should be the one to seek Clarke. Clarke deserves to have someone return to her, too. Perhaps when Clarke has returned from Polis, Lexa will go to her…

(Even as she thinks that, Lexa knows she is not ready. _But perhaps with time_ …)

“I think… I’d like to see her,” she admits, “when her people no longer require her help.”

“That’ll take a while, by the looks of things.” Octavia takes a drink from her cup, peering over the rim at Lexa.

Lexa looks away, disappointment taking root inside of her. “Right.”

“Don’t worry,” Octavia reassures her, placing her now-empty cup on the table with a wry grin, “something tells me she’ll make the time for you anyway.”

 

//

 

“ _Fotin_ ,” Lexa says suddenly, wincing as the liquid burns on its way down her throat.

“What?”

“Fourteen,” Lexa translates, but Octavia dismisses it with a wave of her hand.

“I know what it means. _Fotin_ what?”

“I thought it fitting for me to give you a nickname since you refuse to call me by my given name.” Lexa flushes at the blank look that greets her and rushes to explain. “It’s for —”

“Yeah, yeah, my _kru._ I got that. It’s just… it’s a horrible nickname.”

“It’s not,” Lexa squawks indignantly, “It’s the perf—” The rest of her speech is interrupted by a loud belch that escapes her mouth, and Octavia is too busy trying not to fall out of her seat laughing to notice the glare she sends her way.

“ _Fotin_ ,” Octavia mocks, still clutching at her sides as she finally catches her breath.

“It's certainly more imaginative than _Commander_.”

“It’s a floating number, Lexa.”

“Numbers do not flo— Ha! You called me by my name.”

“Whatever, Commander. Don't get used to it.”

 

//

 

“I guess it's better than being called an outsider,” Octavia muses later, taking a long gulp from her newly filled cup. “Some of the _gona_ call me _Splita_.”

“They called me _Natrona_.”

Octavia snorts. “This isn’t a competition.”

“ _Shof op, Fotin_.”

“Yeah, yeah. Drink.”

 

//

 

“Cork...no, Clock—” Lexa stops, realizing that she is beginning to slur her words. She reaches for the ewer of water and drinks from it greedily, not bothering to fetch another cup. Some of it dribbles off her chin, but merely wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and pushes the rest of it towards Octavia when she is done.

“Clarke,” she tries again, smiling triumphantly when she gets it right this time, “Clarke doesn’t like to be called _Wanheda_.”

“Huh?” Octavia asks, voice muffled by the mouth of the ewer she holds against her face as she drinks.

“You referred to her as that, when we first sparred.”

Octavia drops the ewer back on the table with a loud clang, its remaining contents sloshing inside. “Defending _yu_ _niron_?”

“She is not my… my…” Lexa trails off, brow furrowed as she tries to remember what she was trying to defend.

“Your _lov-er,_ ” Octavia supplies helpfully (or not so helpfully). Lexa only glares in response. “Anyway, relax, I don’t call her that to her face — or ever, really. I only did that to piss you off.”

Lexa huffs and reaches for the _fayowada_.

 

//

 

Sip.

“Are you going to contact your friend?”

“Who?”

Sip.

“Raven. You promised you would talk later. It is now later.”

“Oh.” Long gulp. “Yeah… no. That’ll be a long… conversation.”

“What kind of conversation?”

“One you _definitely_ don’t need to hear.”

Sip. Pause. Narrowed eyes towards flushed ears. A smirk. “You care for her. You have your own _niron_.”

“So you _are_ admitting that Clarke is _yu niron_.”

Spluttering. “I — No!”

Sip. Another pause. “I… care for her, but not in that way. It’s too soon. I’m not ready.”

“Do you think…do you think Lincoln would understand?” _Do you think Costia would understand?_

“I think… Lincoln would want me to be happy.” Shrug. “Probably. I don’t know. He was noble like that.” _So was Costia._

“Are you? Happy?”

“I’m… no. But I’m getting there. I’m content just getting my rocks off for now. Rae understands.”

“Your rocks?”

“Yeah, you know.” A sly wink. “Something you should consider — but don’t tell Clarke I said that.”

Lexa’s face burning as it dawns on her. _Oh._

“What, no cute grounder girls with nothing to trade but their —”

More spluttering. “No!”

“Wow, who knew the Commander was such a prude.”

“I’m not a — I’ll have you know that Costia and I —”

“Who’s Costia?”

 _Jok._ A sudden wish she had not drank so much. Or drank more, perhaps. “She’s…” Jaw clenching. “She’s someone I lost. Before Clarke.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“I can’t speak for Costia… _but._ I _have_ heard some things after some of Monty’s disgusting moonshine. Clarke overestimates how well she can hold her liquor.”

Lexa should be embarrassed. Horrified, even. Still, she leans forward in her seat a little too eagerly. It’s the _fayowada_. Certainly, it’s the _fayowada_.

“Apparently, for such a prude, you definitely knew what you were doing.”

Her stomach twists, but not unpleasantly.

 

//

 

(“Wait, I’m not a prude!”)

 

//

 

Soni returns to find the two of them hunched together giggling like a couple of _branwada_. She tuts at the now-empty bottle on the table that has Lexa scrambling to pour herself a generous amount of water and Octavia standing up abruptly to introduce herself, almost knocking over her chair in the process.

Soni refuses to let Octavia travel back alone in her inebriated state, maintaining a steady disapproving stare that Octavia’s protests and claims that _It's not even that dark yet_ and that she is _perfectly capable_ of protecting herself are no match for.

( _This is all your fault, Lexa._

_Indra is totally going to kill me._

_Lexa, use your Commander powers to make her listen, damn it.)_

 

//

 

It takes a few hours for them to gather their wits, thanks to some food and lots of water that Soni makes them finish under her careful watch. Lexa’s bed is too small, but Octavia dismisses her offer to sleep on the floor with a casual wave.

“Don't worry. When you've lived where I have most of my life, it’s just nice to be sleeping on this side of the floor at all.”

 

//

 

That night, Lexa dreams again. She dreams in flashes — _you want to know why I saved you? Because I need you_ — _you’re safe_ — _war is brewing, Clarke, I need you_ — death, so much death — the wrath of the previous Commanders, white, hot, burning — and _it’s okay, you’re okay_ — lips, slanting over hers — clothes being shed — Clarke — falling asleep — no, waking up — Clarke — a _fayogon_ , somewhere — running — the door —

Lexa wakes up gasping for air.

“You’re okay.”

She turns, blinking at the figure on the floor with bleary eyes.

“Clarke?”

“Try again, Commander.”

Octavia.

Lexa turns back, staring up at the ceiling as she wills her heart to slow.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“Don’t worry about it. I get them too.”

“I think… they were memories.”

“Good.”

Lexa nods, before realizing that Octavia probably can’t see her. She opens her mouth to speak, but she hears a faint snoring below.

“ _Fotin_?” Nothing. “Octavia,” she tries again, louder.

“What?”

Lexa ignores the irritated tone. “Please don't tell Clarke.” Lexa hears some tossing and turning behind her, followed by some inaudible grumbling. “Octavia?”

“She deserves to know.”

“I know, but I want… to understand first.”

“She can probably help with that, stupid.” A sigh. “But yeah, whatever. It’s none of my business, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah, now let me sleep.”

Lexa waits until her ears fill with the sound of snoring again before she turns over to face the wall and closes her eyes, hoping that sleep will come. It doesn’t, not really. She spends the rest of the night thinking about her dreams, trying to weave them together. Trying to make sense of them. But by the time she wakes, most of them have eluded her again, and she’s left with bits and pieces with large, gaping holes in between.

 

//

 

The sun is only starting to rise when Octavia gets ready to return to _Tondisi_.

“Are you fit to travel?” Lexa checks as Octavia picks up her pack, slinging the strap over her shoulder.

“Worried about me?”

“No.”

“Careful,” Octavia teases, “I might actually think we’re friends.”

“Indra is expecting you.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me.” Octavia bends down, reaching for her previously discarded sword and sheath, groaning as she stands.

“Are you —”

“Yeah, I'm good,” Octavia assures her, “My head is killing me, but I can take care of myself.”

Octavia is barely a few steps out the door when she turns, as if remembering something.

“You know, I get it now,” she calls out. Lexa raises an eyebrow curiously, and Octavia raises a shoulder in a half-shrug. “What you saw in each other. What Clarke still sees in you.”

“Oh,” Lexa says, “I don’t… I don’t know if I know how to be that person anymore.”

 _I want to be that person again_ , she thinks, even as she remembers the glimpses of pain, of bloodshed. Because woven into them are also glimpses of warmth, of safety, of… Clarke. She isn't certain that all of it — or any of it — had been real, and there is still more confusion — more emptiness — than there is clarity. She wonders if she can ever remember enough to know — to feel — that it had all been worth it. If she needs to remember to know. To feel.

“Yeah, well this one’s not too bad, so I wouldn't worry about it. I'll see you around, Commander.”

 

//

 

“It’s nice to see you making a friend, _yongon_ ,” Soni tells her later that night.

“I’m not sure Octavia and I are friends,” Lexa says, tucking into her supper. It’s a strange word, certainly not one she’s used very often in her life.

“My _houmon_ and I were friends before we were bonded.”

Lexa chokes on a mouthful of stew. “She’s not,” she says, patting her chest as she tries to stop coughing, “we’re not —”

“Oh?” Soni says, the creases around her eyes deepening, revealing far too much amusement at Lexa’s expense. “Is she not the reason for your sulking when you think no one is around?”

“I wasn’t sulking,” she mumbles, glaring down at her bowl. Her face grows warm as she senses a pair of eyes studying her — not quite judging but anticipating instead.

“Alright,” Soni says when it appears that Lexa will not speak more on the topic, “alright, _yongon_. Why don’t we —”

“There’s someone else,” Lexa confesses, surprising both of them. She fiddles with her spoon nervously, keeping her gaze trained downwards. “Or at least, the possibility of someone else.”

Shame washes over her at the mere thought, because _how could there be someone else?_ _How could she be thinking of someone else (how has she been thinking of someone else) when —_

_I am Lexa kom Trigedakru. I have seen twenty summers. Anya and Costia are dead. Costia is —_

“There was a man who started coming by the trading post the spring after my _houmon_ was taken from me,” Soni shares, interrupting her thoughts before they can spiral any further. “He came even when he had nothing to trade but good conversation, and there were times when I suspected his intentions were of the amorous nature.”

“What... happened?” Lexa asks carefully, noting the faraway look on Soni’s face.

Soni shrugs. “I took him behind the post and laid with him. Never saw him again.”

Lexa blinks in surprise, thankful she has taken a break from her meal. She has only recovered from her coughing fit earlier. “I’m… sorry?”

“There is nothing to apologize for, _ai yongon_ ,” Soni reassures her with a hearty chuckle. “I did not expect, nor did I wish, to ever bond with another… especially not with someone who had seen fifteen fewer summers than I had.”

Thankful indeed.

“There is nothing wrong with learning to love again,” Soni says, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder, “or seeking temporary comfort in another. Take all the time you need, but when the time comes, let yourself. You deserve to be happy, Lexa.”

Lexa gives her a small nod, smiling weakly, wishing she could accept the words easily. Soni smiles back, eyes shining with kindness and understanding. They resume eating, spending the rest of their meal in thoughtful silence. It’s later, when Lexa is clearing the table that Soni speaks up again.

“I wish to meet this _someone else_ someday,” she says, “when you are ready.” She does not wait for a response before retiring to her room.

And Lexa, Lexa thinks of Clarke, and somewhere in the depths of her mind she hears _maybe someday_ , and she thinks of Costia, and she wonders if Costia would want her to be happy too. She wonders, even if deep down, she knows the answer.

 _When you are ready_ , Soni had said. Maybe someday, she will be.


End file.
